


Would That I

by Bluejay141519



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Getting Together, Hospitals, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sickfic, author has unrealistic expectations for characters that she makes them fulfil, i suck at endings, jamie became a wise man some how, jordie is watching from afar, loosely based on absolutely nothing, plot is a slippery little shit, see inside for full TW, this got so deep so fast, tyler gets his ass handed to him on a silver platter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 07:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18441701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluejay141519/pseuds/Bluejay141519
Summary: Tyler is not sick. He's not in love with his captain, he's not missing out on playoffs, and he's not sick.He's just very good at denial.





	Would That I

**Author's Note:**

> For the bennguinn fan fest!!
> 
> [TW: nightmare/delirium, character thinks they’re burning, needles/fear of needles, passing out, puking]

 

 

Like everything in Tyler's life that’s ever caused him trouble, it starts quietly enough.

 

Just a small tickle in the back of his throat. It’s like, the most innocuous thing ever, except that it sort of makes his eyes water a little bit, and sometimes when he tries coughing to get rid of it, he can’t stop.

 

But it’s fine. He’s not sick, they all literally just had their flu shots because it’s fucking January and the NHL is home to a lot of grown men with strong immune system that get beaten down to nothing through week-long roadies and the fact that it’s winter and they’re on planes a lot and get the shittiest sleep and really, after half of the NHL were out last year with fucking mumps, most teams’ Med staff have been anal about keeping players as healthy and rested as possible.

 

Tyler hates needles, but he knew if he denied the flu shot, and then got sick, not only would the entire team be chirping him about karma for the entire rest of his life, but he’d also have to deal with a frustrated and worried Captain Jamie Mother Hen Benn, which is...well. Tyler has a whole lot of emotions surrounding that one.

 

So then, while he has done it before, he doesn’t particularly enjoy putting Jamie in that situation. Their captain has enough stress, and Tyler certainly doesn’t need to be more of a burden. He also hates being sick more than he hates needles, so he gets his flu shot and does his best not to pass out. Chris, the oldest and most experienced of their med staff, does it for him while everyone else gets the newest member of their medical team - a young girl named Casey who’s really shy but really smart (Tyler likes her and all, but Chris is the only one who gets to come near him with a needle). 

 

Chris also makes him lie down for fifteen minutes afterward and won’t let him go home unless Jamie drives him, him being so used to Tyler’s general reaction to feeling the thick sharp metal piece his skin (which he does his best to hide from the team, because literally both his arms are almost covered in ink, you’d think he wouldn’t have a problem with a frickin flu shot).

 

That was exactly three days ago though, and he hasn’t been able to get a decent night's rest since them. It was after practice, and he ended up at the Benns, fell asleep on their couch, woke up in the middle of the night and stumbled back down to his apartment, only for Marshall to get him up two hours later with a very urgent need to use the bathroom. His arm that he got the shot in was sore, and he didn’t need to be cleaning up any more accidents from his not-so-little anymore puppy, so he just didn’t go back to bed, despite how hard it was to keep his eyes open.

 

There was morning skate, video, and then they went straight to a plane, which gave him a nice three and a half hour flight to continually nod off on, but never really get any rest. Every position was uncomfortable, his calves kept aching, and even having Jamie’s shoulder to rest on wasn’t doing it. 

 

They played the Leafs and lost, which sucked, but then went to Boston and won, which was absolutely fantastic, except that they won and then were rushed back onto a plane, and Tyler barely even had time to shower and do press, never mind stretch out.

 

He blames that and the travel on his aching muscles. His hair was still wet when they left the arena that used to be his home, and he shivered his way to the plane where Jordie took pity on him and pushed his extra sweatshirt at Tyler, who burrowed into the warm soft fabric and refused to move until they landed in DC. There he stumbled into the hotel room and passed out without unpacking or getting under the covers. (A massive mistake when he’s woken up at three am by Roussel, because he’s shivering so hard his teeth are chattering loud enough that it woke up his roomie).

 

Tyler is  _ not _ sick.

 

He can’t be sick. He sat through that fucking flu shot, he isn’t supposed to get sick.

 

And yet, it’s Wednesday morning, they have a game against the Caps in a few hours, and he’s holding onto the counter because the bathroom floor keeps rocking like he’s on a ship and he’s afraid if he lets go he’s going to fall.

 

‘ _ Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it _ .’ He isn’t supposed to be sick, he can’t be sick, he has a game to play and a team to support and like, he hates being out of hockey. 

 

The only light at the end of the tunnel is the little voice in his head that reminds him that, technically, he isn’t out of hockey yet.

 

Right. The sharp pounding in his head he can hide, and the general shitty exhausted feeling he could also hide, but the bruises under his eyes and the whiteness of his skin that he’s sure he isn’t imagining are not going to go overlooked by anyone.

 

He doesn’t need everyone to overlook it though, he just needs to get by Chris and Lindy, and he should be able to do enough to convince everyone else that it’s a just a cold and he’s played through worse.

 

If only his hands would stop shaking and his head would stop feeling like a bowling ball, he’d probably be able to manage that.

 

He runs cold water over his wrists and shivers hard enough he’s got to grab the edge of the counter again.

 

‘ _ Not sick _ .’ He tells himself, shutting off the water and drying. ‘ _ You can’t be sick _ .’

 

Rous knocks on the door, and Tyler tugs the sleeves of Jordies sweatshirt over his shaking hands. Thank god the thing is huge on him. He hopes the coaches don’t mind that he’s wearing sweatpants.

 

Ty opens the door. Antoine takes one look at him and opens his mouth to say something, but Tyler does maybe the not smart thing and actually shushes him before the words come out. “I’m fine and let’s go.”

 

Rous doesn’t argue - Tylers pretty surprised he even waited, to be honest, because they really are going to be late - and they escape the room and make it down to the private room of the hotel just in time to not receive any glares from the Coaching staff.

 

It’s certainly not the smartest move Tyler has ever made in his life, going to team breakfast like that. 

 

First, the smell of food makes his stomach roll and twist, and he bypasses the plates entirely to shuffle his way to a conveniently open seat next to Jamie. 

 

Second, Jamie is dressed, as are the rest of the team, and Tyler suddenly wishes he tried to put on something other than his ratty outfit. He swallows pass the urge to cough and scoots his chair in, trying to make himself smaller. It’s quiet, as are team breakfasts after a red-eye flight when they landed less than eight hours before having to get up. Tyler hunches over to glare at the table cloth. His skin feels overly hot and he’s achy like when he doesn’t drink enough water in the summer.

 

A voice in his head that is eerily similar to his moms tells him he has a fever, but he ignores it in favor of focusing on not falling asleep on the table. Everyone’s eating and it takes him a little while to realize that Jamie isn’t talking. Which like- okay that’s normal, because Jamie is the sort of person who literally needs two hours to wake up, and he doesn’t really talk a lot in the first place, but normally he at least says hi to Tyler when he sits. 

 

Tyler’s too busy stewing on how he really  _ shouldn’t  _ be this disappointed he didn’t get the usual nudge and grunt of greeting from Jamie to notice that the Captain is actually more attuned to Tyler’s lack of a plate.

 

“You okay?” Jamie whispers, still staring down at his plate to offer a sense of normalcy that Tyler appreciates. He nods. Jamie grabs a napkin and scoots the two pieces of toast from his plate to the paper before sliding it to Tyler, who shakes his head.

 

“I’m good.”

 

“You don’t eat anything and you don’t play tonight.” Jamie mutters back, taking a bite of his eggs. The table has gone quiet around them - Jordie and Demers both being suspiciously lackluster - Rous is deadly quiet despite sitting next to Eaks, and Val is casting a critical eye at him, giving zero fucks about the apparent need to be discreet about his worry. Russians, man.

 

Tyler eats his toast and slowly sips the glass of water that Jordie puts in front of him at some point. He’d think that maybe Jamie doesn’t want him to play at all, except they’re so close to getting a playoff spot, and tonight is a really important game. In the grand scheme of things, they haven’t played together that long, but Jamie has at least learned that telling Tyler  _ no  _ is a bad, bad idea.

 

Besides. A sick Tyler Seguin playing is better than no Tyler Seguin playing, but maybe not in the eyes of management right now, and Jamie knows that. 

 

It’s fine though, because Tyler  _ is not _ sick. It’s just the severe lack of sleep combining with his body being generally exhausted; one of the problems Tyler has around this point in the season is that he loses weight as fast as he loses his appetite. So it's just- it’s fine. He just needs to sip some Gatorade, and he’ll be fine.

 

Jamie gives him a look when he doesn’t finish the toast, but turns to talk to Rous about something concerning hockey. Tyler goes back to focusing on keeping the room from spinning.

 

**…**

 

“That is not fine, Segs.” 

 

“Shut  _ up  _ Rous,” He coughs between heaves. 

 

Turns out the toast wasn’t the best idea. Antione, for all that he gets chirped about only being a fighter, is a great many things otherwise.

 

Including a normally fine but occasionally extremely nosey roommate.

 

In his defense though, Tyler came right back from breakfast to promptly start getting sick instead of changing into actual clothes, so there’s that.

 

“I’m getting Jamie in here.” 

 

“Oh please don’t.” Tyler whispers back. Jamie was way too quiet at breakfast, which means he’s already planning on ways to get Tyler sidelined for the game so he can give Tyler another lecture on proper self-care and fuss around and hover and do all those annoying things Tyler hates but secretly cherishes.

 

Rous is already out of the bathroom doorway though, so pretty soon both Benns are going to be in here and then the whole team will know and his mother will know, and this is just  _ not _ what Tyler needs right now.

 

His stomach mercifully stops twisting itself into knots, which gives Tyler enough time to get up from the bathroom floor and clean up a little. By the time Jamie knocks on their door, he’s dressed and ready to answer it with a smile. He even brushed his teeth.

 

Jamie looks surprised, which means he expected Tyler to be dying on the floor or something (just because Tyler  _ felt  _ like he was dying for a little bit doesn’t make Jamie’s improbable imagination very valid).

 

(It  _ doesn’t _ .)

 

Unfortunately, he must not look very good though, because Jamie’s eyes narrow, and it’s  _ The Look  _ and Tyler is noping right past him before Rous has time to smash Tyler’s carefully crafted illusion of wellness.

 

Jamie does try to start something though because he gets out an “Uh, are you-” before Tyler gets to the elevator.

 

“Gonna be late Kahpitahn!” Tyler yells, way too loudly. His head calmly reminds him of this with a nice spike of pain that makes him wince. The lights seem really bright all of a sudden and when they step into the elevator he feels like he’s stepping onto a carousel considering how dizzy he gets.

 

‘ _ Not sick, not sick, not sick, not sick- _ ’

 

Jamie eyes him, but once again doesn’t say anything, which is terrifying because Tyler knows he’s being way too quiet to sell this ‘I’m okay just tired’ thing, and also because they’ve normally had at least two full arguments by now, and normally Tylers made about six lewd comments and Jamie's grumbled about it being too early for that shit and Tyler’s called him an old man. None of this has happened, but Jamie is saying nothing.

 

Rous disappears once they’re on the bus, and Tyler finds himself deposited in the first row right next to Jamie. He manages to shrug off Jamie’s concerned looks at first, but when he falls asleep on his friends shoulder less than five minutes into the barely twenty-minute bus ride to the rink, he can tell he’s in trouble. 

 

Skate is hell in a handbasket. Tyler’s headache really ramps up, and he zones out during most of Lindy's plan for practice, which means he’s got no idea what’s going on. The guys are suspiciously good about it, to the point that they get half way through skate before Tyler realizes that they’ve been quietly moving him around the rink, making it look like he’s actually present, and not floating around in some weird half focused headspace. 

 

He’s exhausted and shaky by the time Coach blows the whistle and signals the end of practice. Most of the guys skate off almost immediately, but Tyler stays, doing slow laps around the rink and trying to figure out how he’s going to play tonight. 

 

He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t even notice how most of the team is gone, even all of the coaches until he does a full lap without seeing another jersey. He picks his head up at a flash of green, which is unfortunately enough for his barely-there legs to not extend properly, and the toe of his skate catches, sending him sprawling on his face. 

 

Tyler sighs, the cold ice pressing like a touch of heaven against his scorching skin. There’s the quiet stepping sound of skates, then a little bit of a glide, and then a short stop next to him. 

 

He knows those skates.

 

“I’m fine.” He mumbles, eyes closed as he tries to allow his body to relax without falling asleep. God, he feels  _ awful _ .

 

“Sure.” Jamie agrees in a tone that makes it very clear he Absolutely Does Not believe Tyler, not even a little bit. “So fine you decided to stay and do laps before a game?”

 

Despite how shitty he feels, Tyler grins into the ice. “Know me so well Chubbs.” 

 

Jamie sighs. Ah, there’s the Benny he knows.

 

“Tyler…” He can practically hear Jamie dragging a glove down his face. “I don’t know if-”

 

“Nope!” He struggles to push himself to his hands and knees. “I’m playing,” Tyler states, even as his arms shake and the ice swims before his eyes. Jamie helps him up, and once Tyler’s standing on his own looks him up and down with a critical eye. He knows there are a million things that Jamie wants to say, but Tyler cuts him off with a sharp, “I’ve played through worse.”

 

Jamie raises an eyebrow. “Have you?” He replies skeptically, and Tyler stares right back, gaze hard.

 

“I played in Boston,” He snaps, harsh, and Jamie flinches, just slightly. “Besides this is - if we win this, and we win next game, we’re  _ in _ Jamie. I’m not going to sit on the bench because I’m a little tired.” 

 

He starts to skate off the ice, equally peeved at Jamie and his own stupid immune system, but Jamie skates with him, not letting him storm off as he wants too.

 

They’re both silent all the way to the locker room, which is mostly empty now. Tyler strips his gear and hangs everything up, deciding on showering at the hotel. There’s better water pressure there anyway. 

 

He’s just walking out of the locker room, wrapped in his coat and sweatshirt and shivering despite them when Jamie finally breaks the silence. 

 

“Tyler.” And that’s how he knows he’s in trouble. Jamie never uses his full name like that, especially not in the  _ Captain Voice™ _ . Segs stops at the doorway, but doesn’t face him. “I’m not trying to say you can’t do this, or that I don’t want playoffs, or that the team doesn’t need you-” 

 

He turns on a heel to look at Jamie, and tries to hide how miserable he feels. Jamie looks more than worried, eyebrows drawn together and teeth gnawing on his bottom lip like he does when he’s frustrated. “You’re trying to say  _ something  _ though.”

 

The young captain takes a deep breath, and something flashes across his face, too fast for Tyler’s tired brain to catch. “Just- you know you don’t have to right? Like I- we won’t think anything different of you if you didn’t play.”

 

Tyler swallows and then winces in pain. Jesus, he needs to lay down. 

 

“Thanks, Benny.” He rasps and then rolls his eyes at himself. Okay so- fucking fine.  _ Maybe,  _ he’s a little sick. Maybe.

 

“Also, you look like shit.” Jamie continues in a much less serious tone. Tyler barks out a laugh that hurts his head. 

 

“Aw, honey, you say the nicest things.” He jokes. Jamie rolls his eyes, and as they walk out, he slings an arm over Tylers shoulders, pulling him into his side. Tyler, for his part, does his best not to lean into Jamie too much. 

 

“You want me to room with you instead of Rous?” Jamie asks, and a little part of Tyler’s brain does fucking cartwheels at the idea, except-

 

“No way. Both of us sick? Are you kidding?” Jamie hisses a breath through his teeth at the idea, agreeing. 

 

“Fine. But you better sleep from the second you get back to five minutes before we have to leave-”

 

“I have to shower Jamie-”

 

“-and if you think I won’t have Rous making sure you’re still alive every now and then you’re even more fucked in the head than I thought-”

 

“-Antoine has to sleep too Jamie, I’ll be fine-” Jamie stops walking and turns to face Tyler, once again game-time serious.

 

“You walked downstairs this morning and I thought you were going to pass out at the table. Rous said you weren’t doing good - which, by the way, was not a type of terror I needed that early in the morning, because it’s  _ Rous _ , and he doesn’t ever get worried - you fell asleep in about thirty seconds on the bus ride here, you were out of it all practice, the team basically skated you around, you have a fever, and you’re paler than a god damn polar bear.” Jamie replies. “The only reason I’m not locking you in a hotel room for the game is because of how much this means to you. Do me a fucking favor, and sleep.”

 

Tyler blinks, eyes wide.

 

_ ‘He noticed and he’s worried about you.’  _ His heart whispers, giddy as it does cartwheels in his chest. 

 

His brain tells it to shut up as he scurries to follow Jamie as he starts walking again.

 

“Harsh, Benny. Harsh.”

 

Jamie just sighs again. Tyler, in spite of his aching muscles and overall tiredness, smiles triumphantly.

 

**…….**

 

“-eed to wake up. I swear to god Segs I’m gonna call a fuckin ambulance if you don’t-”

 

“‘M up, ‘m up.” He mumbles, and then immediately moans in pain as that statement, unfortunately, holds true. His head hurts so bad, which is making his stomach churn unpleasantly, which is making him curl up, which is making his already sore muscles cramp and ache more. He’s shivering, teeth chattering against waves of goosebumps that start at the top of his head and crawl down to his toes. The heavy hotel comforter does nothing to hold in heat, and he’s so fucking cold. His neck hurts from the awkward angle of being curled against the pillows, and his face feels cold for some reason.

 

Okay, so maybe- maybe more than a little sick. 

 

Maybe. Just- just a little.

 

“...have to get to the bus. Segs!”

 

“God, stop yelling Rous.” He snaps finally. There’s a pause. 

 

“You want me to get Jamie in here? Better yet, Alice would love to check you out-”

 

“Fuck.” He spits, but throws the covers back anyway, and peels his sticky eyes open to glare at the winger. “You play dirty.” 

 

Rous looks annoyingly unimpressed, standing there in his game-day suit, bag already packed. The shivering ramps up as cold air hits his body, and he’s reduced to sitting there trembling pathetically before Antoine sighs and disappears into the hallway.

 

Damn it.

 

He manages to stumble his way to the bathroom, although he almost knocks himself out on the edge of the sink when he trips on the towel he left from his shower. He turns on the light, flinches at the brightness, and then proceeds to stare in dread at his appearance in the mirror.

 

If he thought he looked bad this morning…

 

“Seggy?”

 

“God damn it.” He breathes. “You said you wouldn’t get him if I got up!” He yells, turning to stare flatly at Jamie. Roussel waltzes in behind him and grabs his bag.

 

“I promised no such thing.” Is the quipped response from the Frenchman, making Tyler sigh. Jamie looks at him with resigned concern, which is a weird expression on him honestly.

 

“Still playing?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, I hate to tell you this-”

 

“Come on Jamie-” He whines.

 

“-but you have to put clothes on if you’re going to the rink.” He holds up Tyler’s suit, still in the garment bag. 

 

He swallows.

 

“Let’s do this.”

 

**……**

 

“You good Seggy?”

 

“This was a horrible idea.” Tyler croaks back, shivering into Jordie’s side as the puck bounces down the ice. “An absolutely disgusting, horrible, ridiculously stupid, no good idea, why did you let me do this Jamieson.”

 

“Because I thought you wouldn’t be able to get out of bed, never mind dressed and through two fucking periods of hockey.” Jamie huffs back. Jordie laughs, and Tyler just knows that there’s going to be pictures all over the internet of his thin frame smushed between the two Benns, but fuck, they’re both so warm and Tyler is  _ freezing _ , and his muscles are burning, and he feels like he’s constantly two seconds away from passing out.

 

He had made it all the way to the locker room without any of the staff noticing, and while he’s sure the team had noticed his stupidity immediately, they certainly were loud enough when Lindy walked in that he didn’t notice the absence of Tyler Doing Dumb Shit.

 

A few wobbly smiles in the right places and a Gatorade later, and he was in uniform on the ice. The Gatorade had certainly helped - he didn’t throw up, despite it being really close, and keeping it down probably got him through the first period, even if every shift felt like hours, and he couldn’t ever catch his breath, and it generally felt like he was skating through mud -  he got through it. He repeated the process for the second, even managing to stay in the right spot to give Jamie an assist on a goal that ties the game.

 

And then - then it’s the third period. It’s the third period now - and fuck, Tyler is done. His head feels so heavy, his hands are trembling in his gloves, he keeps blinking for long periods of time. He loses several minutes once, and comes back to Jamie shaking his arm in a really, really worried sort of way.

 

“What?”

 

Jamie’s eyes widen, and he looks to Jordie, who opens his mouth to say something, but then Coach is calling their line, and Tyler is up and over the boards before he can think about why that’s a bad idea.

 

First and foremost - he feels awful (he realizes that’s been established, but this is like, a new level of constant, horrible, awfulness). He’s shivering (he’s been shivering, jumping between too hot and too cold all day, but this is like he’s visibly shaking, trembling so much it  _ hurts _ ), his hands won’t grip the stick right, his footwork is horrendous, and he can’t keep up with where the puck is going. Everything hurts, every part of his body, his head being main with its raucous pounding that coincides with his heartbeat.

 

Secondly - and this is only second because Tyler feels so horrible he thinks he might be dying - he can’t keep up with the game. Not just the puck moving to fast, but also the people around him. He doesn’t know what to do, and he’d hate to see what he looks like on camera, given that everything and everyone is slipping past him at an alarming rate.

 

So, really, it’s not much of a surprise to him that he finds himself being thrown around more than normal. What is a surprise though, is when the Canucks forward hits him so hard he actually gets thrown off his feet, and his head bounces off the glass before he crumples. There’s no whistle, which Tyler expected as it was a mostly clean hit, if albeit unnecessary. 

 

Like. He’s behind his own goal. There’s no need to be smashing him behind his own fucking goal. It’s stupid. 

 

At least, that’s what he comforts himself with as he clings to the boards, panting in effort. Holding himself up suddenly seems like the hardest thing in the world, and he’s barely managing it. The game has shifted away from him, the puck back at the opposite end. He should be there. He needs to be there, he needs to be backing up Jamie, he needs-

 

He needs to fucking  _ breath _ , is what he needs to do. He can feel Kari glancing at him, and he uses that as motivation to get on his skates again. He can’t have his goalie looking away from the game. And if he isn’t going to help the team on the ice, then he needs to get the fuck off of it.

 

Easier said than done. 

 

No whistle unless the play shifts back down the ice or he’s put in danger, so he just needs to skate real gently to the bench, and then Rads can take his place, and they’ll be in top shape. He pushes off the boards, and instantly regrets it as the world tilts sickeningly. He thinks Kari might say his name, and he just shakes his head - another bad idea, because he almost throws up at the motion - and then he bends over, elbows on his knees. It’s a lot easier to stay upright this way, but it’s harder to skate. He can’t pick up any decent amount of speed, and it’s basically five on four right now, but he keeps having to use his stick to keep his body balanced, and if he goes any faster than the slight cuts he’s making now...well sports net is going to be showing videos of his unconscious body for weeks.

 

It turns out even that slight movement isn’t enough, because barely ten feet from the bench he shifts his weight to his left leg and when he puts his right skate back down his knee just gives out, sending him down to the ice. He doesn’t know what’s going on with the game anymore, he doesn’t know what’s going on with  _ anything _ anymore. All he can focus on is breathing and not passing out, two things that are so stupidly hard right now.

 

There’s too much spit gathering in his mouth, and his tongue feels uncomfortable in his mouth, pressing into the back of his throat, and he digs his left skate into the ice and pushes frantically, because he’s going to start gagging, and he’s not off the ice yet. 

 

His world narrows even further, tunnel vision to the bench door. There’s a lot of noise around him, a lot of his teammates' voices and stick tapping, but he’s just close enough now, just close enough. He’s within the legal distance for a change, so someone else can jump over for him, and he can maybe go lie down somewhere.

 

He can’t even move his legs anymore, but someone must grab the back of his jersey, because he’s getting literally dragged off the ice and into the safety of the bench. 

 

It’s like a breath of fresh air for a second, and while Alice crouches down next to him, he actually manages to beat the nausea back. The world comes in random details -  gloved fingers on his neck, checking his pulse, his teammates angry yelling, a goal horn - and he moans in pain. His skin feels like it’s on fire, the heat beating back the shivers. His muscles feel like jello and his brain is trying to escape through his ears, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t and now he fucked up. He doesn’t blame them for being angry at him, especially since that was probably a goal in their net. If he’d just been faster, or better yet, listened and not played at all, the team wouldn’t be losing their playoff spot.

 

“If you don’t start talking to me Segs, I’m putting you on a stretcher.” Alice’s voice snaps him back to his body, and he glares at her. 

 

“Everything hurts and I’m going to throw up in the next two minutes.” He snarls. She doesn’t even flinch. If anything, she looks like she’s hiding a satisfied smirk.

 

“Up.” She commands, and somehow he manages, although she and another trainer help. He stumbles his way down the tunnel, somehow staying upright.

 

He gets to a quiet room, and they systematically strip him of his gear. He knows he’s done, knew it when he had to crawl to the bench, but it still stings a little when they tell him. He’s allowed to sit up, but there are two people by him at all times, ready for him to fall over (and at this point, he appreciates the fact that if he passes out, he won’t break his face on the floor).

 

He’s been concussed before, so he at least knows that they’re going to test him for it, but they’re nice enough to shove a trash bin between his legs and wait until after he’s thrown up what little was in his stomach before starting to examine him.

 

“Well, the good news is you don’t have a concussion.” Alice tells him, and then shoves a water bottle in his hand. “But you’re not going anywhere until you can hold this down, and you’ve got a fever.” While drinking again doesn’t really appeal to Tyler, a pissed off head trainer appeals to him even less, and besides, its half Gatorade, half water. If he sips it, his stomach agrees to keeping it, for now at least. Sitting down probably helps too, but without his pads, without movement, he’s shivering again.

 

He finishes the water bottle and slides carefully off the table, relieved to find his legs strong enough to carry him. “Can I shower?” He asks, reaching to the cooler for another Gatorade. 

 

“How are you feeling?” A new guy - Chris or something - responds instead of Alice who’s talking to the coaching staff. 

 

“Better. Not dizzy anymore.” It’s not a lie - now that he’s off the ice and had a chance to just breathe and relax, everything seems to have calmed down. The guy nods, but stands up to follow him to the locker room. After running Tyler through some more questions, and watching him finish the rest of the Gatorade, he lets him be.

 

The game is still going on outside. He hears the ebb and flow of the crowd, the roaring as goals almost get scored and hits are leveled against the two teams. It’s familiar. Almost a comfort as he steps into the warm stream of water. 

 

Or it is for about two minutes, and then it all starts to sound like he’s standing in the tunnel, echoing and weird. It dips and swoops in his ears, and it feels like the floor follows suit, and his head is like a bowling ball and then he’s sliding down the metal side of his stall, desperate for some solid surface to ground himself.

 

It occurs to him, sometime later, that it’s sort of an issue that he can’t stand up. And actually, the more he tries to think about it, he has no idea how long he’s been slumped on the floor, which is also very bad, but god,  _ god  _ he just wants to lay down and sleep. He’s at the end of whatever thin rope he was hanging from, and his body is letting him know it.

 

He’s freezing again. And it’s so, so bad, he’s shaking so hard on the tile floor, and the water, somehow still warm, is not helping, so he reaches up for the handle to turn it off.

 

The dizziness has subsided a bit, enough that he can get to his knees, and then hold onto the stall to stand. This somehow works, and Tyler gives himself a mental pat on the back as wraps his towel around his waist.

 

Water is off, he’s not going to scar a poor equipment person with his dick, he can stand- this is excellent. He’s honestly doing so well.

 

He just needs some  _ clothes _ , and maybe then he’ll be warm enough to deal with everything that just happened.

 

The locker room is thankfully very empty, so no one is there to watch him wobble his way over to a stall that is Absolutely Not His, nor is there anyone to watch him take ten minutes just to put on a sweatshirt (that is also Absolutely Not His, but he thought about putting on his suit again, and he just about burst into tears.)

 

The hoodie feels huge on him, but Jesus Christ, it feels like being wrapped in a hug. It’s soft and worn and heavy and it smells like soap and the air right after a heavy rain. He feels like he could sink in it and never have to move again.

 

He does need pants though, because believe it or not Tyler Seguin does have a few ounces of self-preservation, and there are very important parts that need covering, so he makes his way over to his own stall and finds underwear and sweats. That’s as far as anything goes however, because he’s cold and he’s tired, just like he’s been for every minute of every hour for the past day.

 

It feels like it’s been forever since Tyler’s been warm even though he remembers being way too hot as he got off the ice. He curls up into his stall and pulls his hands into his sleeves, just hoping that he gets that little bit of warmth back into them. He’s shivering again, and it’s quickly turning into full body tremors that are so strong they make his teeth chatter.

 

He can’t say he falls asleep, really, because he’s so caught up in trying not to shake, and trying not to pay attention to his shaking, and trying to convince himself the team isn’t going to be pissed at him, that he doesn’t really get any kind of rest.

 

He also can’t really say he stays awake, because one second he’s just curling up into his stall and the next there’s a hand on his forehead and a lot more voices than there should be for an empty locker room.

 

There’s a low murmuring right above him, and someone must reach a decision because the hand is removed and that’s just a real fucking shame because it was  _ warm _ . He actually might’ve been leaning into it a bit though, since once it’s taken away he almost falls out of the stall. It’s enough to startle him into opening his eyes and dropping his legs to the floor.

 

“Oh fuck.” He croaks.  _ Wow,  _ his voice is  _ destroyed _ .

 

He looks up briefly, and Jamie is there, because of course he is. He frowns at Tyler, and Segs feels the urge to drop his eyes to the floor again. Someone calls him away before Jamie can respond, and Tyler curls back into his stall.

 

The team is quiet, but not, and he can’t tell if that means they lost or if it was like a really close loss or what, but if they did lose, he gets the bad feeling it was probably because of him and his stupid decision to play. He wouldn’t blame them if they were pissed. If this was Boston, he would already be-

 

A hand lands on his shoulder, and Tyler flinches despite himself. “Hey, you awake?”

 

He nods. Jamie is all crunched up into the space in front of him, looking entirely done with the day.

 

“Wanna go to the bus?” Jamie's voice is serious but gentle, and that worries Tyler as much as it soothes him. The guys are sort of milling around like they’re waiting for something. 

 

Jamie nudges his knee and he realizes he hasn’t responded yet.

 

“Segs?”

 

“Did we win?” He whispers, wary of his raw throat. Jamie gives him an odd look, but nods.

 

“Got the goal when you were crawling your way to the bench.” Jamie sort of looks pained when he says it, and the words seem to stick in his throat. “C’mon.” 

 

Tyler takes his hand and stands, wobbling a little. An arm goes around his shoulders, and he looks to see Jordie casually steadying him. “You know if you wanted a day off Segs, there are easier ways.”

 

“You’re hilarious.” He mutters but is grateful for the contact nonetheless. As they walk from the locker room, he finds himself suddenly surrounded by the rest of the team. He doesn’t know if it’s intentional or just some unconscious instinct, but he’s certain it protects him from any cameras that might be lurking.

 

He’s still a little nervous about everything if he’s being honest. He’s happy they won, happy that they didn’t lose a goal because of him, but he still made them play a man down for a good minute or so, and it could’ve really fucked them over. An OT win wouldn’t have been enough to get them in, the three points were needed. 

 

He just needs to get to the hotel and try to prepare for the third degree from Jamie. 

 

Jamie who told him not to play, Jamie who‘s been worrying about Tyler all day, Jamie who supported Tyler in getting through the day despite knowing how sick he was, because he knew it was something Ty was going to do with or without his help.

 

Jamie, who Tyler has had an on again, off again crush since they first met. Jamie, who is as far as Tyler knows, completely straight. 

 

(Jamie whose sweatshirt he’s wearing, something all of the guys took in stride. Jamie who’s always been there for him, no matter how stupid he’s been, Jamie who lets Tyler cuddle him and who invites him over for dinner every night and who single-handedly put the pieces that were Tyler back together after the trade, and made a hockey player out of him.)

 

He is way too sick to be thinking about all of this, except Jamie keeps touching him, which is torture of its own. The number of steadying hands and comforting pats and attention calling taps he’s gotten over the last twenty-four hours have sucked, but he’s been way too sick to deal with it.

 

So it’s just sort of. Sitting around in his head. When he’s not thinking about how much he’d like to be unconscious, he’s thinking about how wonderful it would be to be able to curl up in Jamie’s arms and sleep there instead of his cold bed.

 

Something presses into his palm. The cool dampness jolts him out of his daydream, and he looks down to see Rad’s pressing a small Gatorade into his palm.

 

“Should try to drink that Seggy.” Tyler nods, even though his stomach is...still trying to hold onto the Gatorade/water mix he’d had earlier. Alexander looks concerned, so he grips the bottle and sends him a small smile, hoping he can get away with not touching it for a while.

 

They get to the bus and his head is officially imitating a bowling ball. He can’t keep anything straight. It’s so much work just to stay awake, he just can’t keep his head up, which results in a lot of drooping and then jolting upright when his chin hits his chest. Jordie basically manhandles him up the steps and into the first seat open, and then Jamie is right next to him.

 

Tyler paws at the armrest until Jamie lifts it, and then he’s curling into Jamie’s side. He doesn’t care how not normal it is, or how the captain stiffens at first. All he cares about is how warm and comfortable he is, and that’s all he needs.

 

“You okay Ty?”

 

“Don’t feel good.” He mumbles into Jamie’s shoulder.

 

Jamie puts an arm around his shoulders and then the next thing Tyler’s aware of are hands grabbing at his arms and shifting him around. He’s standing, or being told to at least, but no,  _ no  _ he finally got to sleep he is not waking up now. They can fucking carry him for all he cares.

 

They don’t, unfortunately, so he’s aware of the cool night air biting at his skin as he tries to make his feet move over the pavement that keeps flashing in his vision. The ground goes from black to white to a weird green, and then a blurry grey that he realizes is the floor of an elevator.

 

Right. Hotel. 

 

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again he’s in a bed, leaning against someone. 

 

That someone is not Jamie and he doesn’t like it.

 

The person laughs, a deep familiar thing that Tyler can feel through his chest. “Sorry to disappoint, Segs.” 

 

“Jord?”

 

“Yup.”

 

He pouts. “‘S Jame?”

 

“Finagling some soup into a mug.” 

 

Oh they're gonna make him eat, aren’t they. 

 

“Wanna sleep.” He complains as the TV turns on, volume low. 

 

“Too bad. You need calories bud.” A new voice pops up right next to him. Jamie doesn’t even hesitate to get on the bed, so now Tyler is sandwiched between the two brothers. 

 

He grumbles, but then he smells the soup. His stomach is calm, and he’s not so cold stuck between two massive space heaters like he is, so he leans his head back and lets Jordie hold the mug while he tries to swallow the broth past his sore throat.

 

He doesn’t even know where the fuck they got soup, but he just does not care.

 

At some point, Jamie disappears again, and when he comes back more voices follow.

 

“...do realize if we all get sick, Lindy is going to kill us right?”

 

“Technically you’re most contagious before you get sick, and we all live in close quarters. If we’re sick, we’re sick.”

 

“I’ll let you explain that to him then.”

 

“Whatever, just scoot over.”

 

“What the fuck are we watching Jordie? Jeez, pick something a little more interesting than nature documentaries.”

 

It’s the team, or some of them at least, existing in their glory as they invaded each other’s space just to chirp and argue and be around their very very sick teammate because they’re mother hens who don’t know how germs work. 

 

If he had the energy to tell them to get out he’d be yelling right now, because if they get sick, then they’re fucked, but the broth is gone and Tyler is warm and fed and lying on a soft surface. 

 

He’s done.

 

**…**

 

Tyler is dreaming.

 

The world is on fire and he’s burning with it. His clothes are on fire, and the bed is on fire, and the room is on fire. There are flames outside the window too, but there’s no smoke. He inhales flame and he coughs and sputters out the heat. 

 

Jamie is there, in the bed beside him. He isn’t burning, in fact he’s cold when Tyler touches him. He looks at Ty with these icy, dead eyes. He’s just laying in bed, staring at Tyler with those eyes that lack their normal warmth, that have no recognition and none of the emotion they normally hold when he looks at Tyler.

 

He’s burning, he’s so hot, everything is crumbling down around him but Jamie, Jamie  _ isn’t _ .

 

“You can still go.” He says.

 

Jamie doesn’t move.

 

“Jame- Jamie you need to go, you  _ have to go _ -” He starts pushing at Jamie in a panic. He doesn’t know how Jamie’s avoided burning this whole time, but if he leaves now, Tyler knows he’ll be okay.

 

“I’m not leaving.” Jamie says, and suddenly his arms are stuck to his sides, and he can’t reach Jamie anymore. His breath stutters in his chest, lungs struggling around the heated air, throat choking on it.

 

“Why- Jamie you have to go, you have to  _ go _ , why won’t you leave?!”

 

“Don’t you know, Seguin?” The flames roar around him, covering the ceiling and flickering over the sheets he lays on. Jamie leans close with those terrible cold eyes and his terribly cold skin and terrible, trembling voice, tells him, “You did this to me.”

 

Tyler shuts his eyes and screams. 

 

Hands grab his shoulders and shake him. Voices come from underwater, telling him things, yelling things at each other. He twists in terror and confusion, but it’s no good. He’s still hot, still so hot, but when he opens his eyes, there are no flames. Nothing is burning, not him, not the hotel room, not the air itself. Jamie isn’t ice cold and dead in front of him, but instead is staring at him with real fear in his eyes.

 

“-ear me? Segs!”

 

“J’mie?” He mumbles, confused and scared himself.

 

“Oh thank god,” Jamie breathes. He turns to someone who’s on the phone behind him. The person nods in Tyler’s direction and says something.

 

“Hey, Seggy listen to me,” Jamie is looking at him again. Tyler wants to cry. He still feels like he’s burning, but there’s no flames anymore. He’s so confused.

 

“ _ Tyler _ .”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“Do you remember coming back from the game? I went and got you soup, do you remember that?”

 

“Who?” He mumbles. Jamie’s face goes white. That’s not good.

 

“Me, Segs. Do you remember me helping you eat?” His eyes shift to the other person who’s still got his phone to his chest.

 

“Who’re ‘ou?” 

 

The guys face does something complicated, then he lifts the phone back to his ear. “ER. Got it.” He hangs up and comes towards Tyler, which has him shrinking back. Jamie’s hands are on him, gently holding him still.

 

“Hey Ty, listen to me, we’re going to have to get up okay?” Tyler latches onto Jamie’s wrist with his hand and hopes he gets the message. Jamie’s crouched across from Ty with his bedhead flopping everywhere and Tyler sort of wants to reach out and pet it. He wonders is this is real. 

 

It certainly  _ feels  _ real as he’s manhandled into a sitting position that quickly turns to standing. He doesn’t know why they’re doing what they’re doing, but he’s too weak and uncoordinated to make them stop.

 

His feet won’t move right, but somehow that seems to be taken care of. There’s a lot of bright lights and some low buzzing that might be a conversation. He doesn’t- he’s really not-

 

A blast of cold rocks him backward, and he twists feebly in some attempt to avoid it. It doesn’t work, but soon enough he’s being bundled into a small warm space that might be the back of a car.

 

It’s darker here. He’s shaking, muscles moving without his consent. Something soft is wrapped around him. He’s moving.

 

Everything is happening in small moments and quick flashes only brought to him in simple, easy ways. The brush of fabric against his skin. The flash of an LED clock, blinking red as it read _ 12:17 _ . Fingers tangling in his hair, smoothing it down, touching his neck.

 

He feels like he’s dying.

 

The car stops, and Tyler’s stomach decides that’s the perfect opportunity to rid itself of its contents. Nobody yells at him for it even though he feels like they should. 

 

Someone shakes his shoulder again, once he’s done puking, and this time he manages to blink open his eyes. Jamie is there, which is good.

 

To his left is a wheelchair, which is bad.

 

“Can walk.” He slurs, but he sounds pretty bad even to his own ears, and like- no, he can’t. He can barely sit up. He can’t even string together a coherent thought at the moment. The wheelchair, however humiliating it might be, is probably a good idea.

 

By some work of magic, he goes from laying across the backseat to sitting in the thing, and then the bright lights are back, and there are louder voices. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t know where he is or who he’s with or why everything is spinning around so much. He just wants it all to stop, but instead, he gets more moving and more spinning.

 

There’s people talking to him. He knows that, and he knows that he knows who those people are are, but none of the gentle taps and quiet “ _ You’re okay Seggy _ ”’s help him very much. He can’t keep his head to stay upright, so instead, he lets it sort of loll around as they turn corners. 

 

He still doesn’t know what going on when people start touching him again. They make him stand up and then sit down on something sort of hard but sort of squishy and he’s lying down before anyone can tell him not to.

 

It’s a hospital probably, but Tyler can’t think of why that’s a big thing. He feels like maybe he should know, and that being in the hospital is not good, but he feels so bad, it’s like his insides are being scrambled.

 

Jamie is there suddenly, so maybe one of those miserable whimpering sounds came from him. He’s talking to Jamie - or Jamie is talking to him? Yeah. He’s telling Tyler about something. 

 

“ _ Focus _ .” He says, through some weird echoing tunnel. Tyler blinks. “ _ Focus on me _ .”

 

There’s someone else in the room now, maybe more someone’s, but he does as he’s asked and stares tiredly at Jamie. It feels like deja vu. He looks so stressed. The captain shouldn’t look like that.

 

There’s a pinching in his arm, and he tries to move his hand to swat at it. Something stops it, and he quickly finds that it’s Jamie’s hand in his that’s keeping that arm immobile. 

 

Tyler frowns. “J’m’e.” He squeezes the hand, and the hand squeezes back. Another hand brushes the hair from his forehead, and it feels nice to have his hair out of his face, so it makes sense for Jamie to keep doing it. 

 

“You’re gonna be okay.” He murmurs. Strange plastic fingers tap against his skin and move him around. He doesn’t like it, yet he can’t stop it. “They’re going to help you feel better, alright Ty? You’re gonna be okay.”

 

Tyler believes him.

 

**….**

 

When he wakes up - when he  _ actually  _ wakes up - he’s freezing again. This time though, it feels less like a product of his fever, and more like a combination of a cold room and running on nothing but a little Gatorade and some soup for a day and a half. 

 

Jamie’s hand is still running through his hair, but it stops when Tyler cracks open his eyes. He’s on his side, curled up without anything but the thin t-shirt and sweats he was wearing back at the hotel.

 

He still feels like shit, except this is more of an acutely aware ‘feel like shit’ where before he was just straight up delusional.

 

“Segs? You with back with me?” 

 

Tyler groans in affirmation. He is, but he doesn’t want to be. He wants to sleep, but he also wants to eat, and drink several gallons of water along with a whole bottle of pain medication.

 

“I hate hospitals.” He grumbles, feeling acutely uncomfortable. They must’ve come here because...his fever. Right. Wondering if he was burning alive. Fun times. “Fever?” 

 

Jamie blinks a few times like he’s coming out a daze. “What? Oh yeah. You uh- yeah. Your temp went sky high, and the trainers can’t treat that, so we drove you over here.” He smiles a bit. “You puked on Jordies shoes.”

 

“Jordie’s here?” He shivers.

 

“Yeah.” Jamie stands up and moves around to the other side of the bed. Tyler shifts and feels something pull at the inside of his elbow that he instantly chooses not to think about. “Jordie, Rads, Val, Rous, and Demers. I don’t actually know how they all ended up here, but I was busy panic driving, so that’s my excuse.”

 

A warmth settles over Tyler and he nearly moans as the blanket is unfolded over him. Jamie sits back down, patting at the fabric like he’s barely holding himself back from tucking Tyler in.

 

He smiles, a small weak thing, but it’s a smile nonetheless. It’s meant only for Jamie, the same way the soft touches are meant only for Tyler. 

 

“Are they gonna make me stay?” 

 

“Don’t think so. Your fever is way down, and they basically just said you need rest and calories, so.” Jamie fiddles with his sleeves while Tyler traces small patterns over the blankets. 

 

“Time is it?”

 

“Like...two?” 

 

He blinks. “In the morning.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And they’re all in the waiting room?!”

 

Jamie looks at him oddly. “Yes?”

 

He was feeling- not better, but- less miserable. Now though, he feels that calm slipping away, rapidly being replaced by something much darker. “They shouldn’t be.”

 

“Where else would they be?”

 

“Fucking- I don’t know?! The hotel, in a bed,  _ sleeping _ . Not hovering over me in a locker room, not showing up in my room, not in the hospital at two in the morning.”

 

Jamie raises an eyebrow. “The guys were in the hotel room because you were so fucking sick you had to crawl your way to the bench, Seggy.”

 

“They worry too much.”

 

“They  _ care _ .”

 

“They shouldn’t.” He hisses out, then instantly regrets it.

 

That’s too much. That’s- that’s true, it is, but people don’t like when Tyler speaks the truth.  _ Tyler  _ doesn’t like it when he speaks the truth. When people know those things, they pay attention to him. 

 

He doesn’t do well when people pay attention to him.

 

Jamie has stopped playing with his sleeves and is now gripping the bed rail so hard Tyler’s surprised it doesn’t crack under the pressure.

 

“Why do you think that?” He’s glaring at the blankets when he asks, and Tyler feels himself start to shrink. 

 

But, since he’s being brutally honest...

 

“Because it’s what I’ve been taught.” He responds resignation heavy in his voice. He doesn’t know what Jamie will do with all of this, but he can’t imagine a single good scenario. 

 

The captains face is stormy, but before he can get a word out a nurse bustles her way into the room and starts asking Tyler questions while checking numbers and things. 

 

Tyler tries not to hate her for it, because it’s not her fault that their conversation is now going to be left open-ended, gaping and festering like an infected wound. He shouldn’t have said what he did. Now Jamie’s going to do nothing but think of ways to talk about it, and Tyler is going to do nothing but think of ways to not talk about it. He’s sick still, exhausted, and in pain, but he can’t blame anything on that. 

 

No one wants a broken player to be the face of the franchise. 

 

(No one wants  _ him _ . He pulls shit like this.)

 

The nurse seems to be intentionally oblivious to the tension in the room. She tells him everything they did when to go back to the hospital, what to do once he’s out. They’re discharging him, thank god, but they’ve all go less than six hours before they have to get on a plane to go home.

 

He scribbles his way through paperwork, and the nurse gives him very pointed looks while he sluggishly climbs his ways into a sweatshirt Jamie brought for him. It’s the same one he stole out of Jamie’s bag at the arena. “ _ Rest _ .” She tells him, a knowing glint in her eye. “Otherwise you’re going to be right back in this bed, and you won’t be doing anything on ice for a much, much longer time.” 

 

Tyler opens his mouth to comment, but she turns to Jamie with an equally stern look. “You - get some soup or something into him. Fluids. Preferably Gatorade or things with salt and calories, but easy on the stomach.” 

 

Jamie nods mutely. She hands Tyler a clipboard with all his paperwork and instructions to take them to the front desk, then leaves, grumbling something about stubborn men.

 

He decides he likes her.

 

**….**

 

They get back to the hotel sometime around three. It’s disgustingly cold, and it’s near the point where it isn’t night anymore, but very, very early morning. 

 

He’d quietly apologized to the guys in the waiting room, ignored the weird looks he got in return, and then passed out in the backseat for the thirty-minute drive back. 

 

He’s feeling okay, so despite the bone-deep exhaustion, he convinces Jamie to let him take a shower. It’s just long enough to strip him of the layers of sweat and illness that clung to his skin, but Jamie makes him keep the bathroom door open in case he falls.

 

And like - okay, Jamie’s right. Maybe he’s being a little too harsh. If he had to watch a teammate get hit then crawl his way off the ice, he’d be pretty worried too.

 

He’ll apologize to the team later though. No is the time for sleep, finally,  _ finally _ , getting semi-comfortable   with a fever low enough he’s not completely miserable or freezing. 

 

Someone had been kind enough to get the sheets changed, and there are extra blankets, and everything is so warm and so soft he should be able to conk out immediately, and not think about how it’s suddenly only him and Jamie in a room where he’s normally got at least one other person.

 

It’s fine. He just needs to relax a little bit and not think about how he needs to get up in five hours, and he can-

 

“Can I ask you something?” Jamie says quietly. Tyler blinks sticky eyes up at the ceiling and resists the urge to start swearing.  He rolls over to face the other bed where Jamie’s figure is outlined by the dim light coming from the cracks in the curtains.

 

“Shoot.”

 

“Before, in the locker room. Why did you ask me if we won?”

 

He blinks again, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. This is what’s keeping him up? “Why wouldn’t I have asked? The whole reason I played today was to try and get that win.”

 

“Was it?” Jamie mumbles, sort of wondering almost, and oh, this is the conversation. This is  _ the  _ conversation, the one from earlier, that apparently is  _ not  _ going to be left alone for Tyler to avoid.

 

“Was what.” He mumbles, desperately hoping to play dumb.

 

“Was that the reason you played? To get the win?”

 

“Why else would I have played, Jamie.”

 

Jamie turns and looks at him, and there’s something blazing in his eyes, fierce and powerful. Visible, even in the darkness. “Maybe you felt like you had to.”

 

His stomach turns to a solid block of ice. “Listen Benn-” He starts angrily, but it clearly doesn’t deter Jamie.

 

“ _ No _ , Tyler. I let you play because I thought the only way you wouldn’t go on the ice would be if  _ you  _ decided not to play. But then I was scoring, and when I turned around to check on you it was to watch you get dragged into bench because you couldn’t stand on your own. And then when I see you in the locker room you looked terrified before you found out we won.” 

 

Tyler swallows and looks away. He can’t hold Jamie’s gaze.

 

“What did you think I was going to do to you? Did you think we’d be mad?”

 

He shakes his head. “I- if we lost this game because I played-”

 

“It  _ still  _ wouldn’t have been your fault.” Jamie’s voice is solid. Serious but not cold, he believes every word that he’s saying. The Captain in full. “We win and we lose as a team. Yes, one player can make a difference, but that doesn’t mean it’s your job to carry the team. It doesn’t mean that us losing the playoffs would have been your fault.”

 

And-

 

It’s been a long day. A long, shitty, shitty day. He’s sick, he’s exhausted, he’s emotionally wrung out. 

 

While he could blame all of that on why he starts crying, he knows that even if he was at one hundred percent, he’s still have tears going down his face.

 

No one’s ever said that to him before.

 

It’s only ever been on him. Always on Tyler, the star player, to win, to make the plays, to get the points. If his team lost, it was always his fault. He should’ve done better, been faster, taken more shots. Even when he gave his all, it was never enough.

 

“Jamie, I-” He chokes on the words. What is he supposed to say to that?

 

He hears covers rustling, and then footsteps and then there’s a presence at the side of his bed. 

 

He doesn’t hesitate to scoot over. Jamie climbs in the bed, then there’s a weight settling at his hip. He turns over, reaching for Jamie who reaches back. He lays down and Tyler just falls into his chest and cries.

 

“You said earlier, that you were  _ taught  _ that people shouldn’t care about you. Did they teach you that?” Tyler starts to shake his head but thinks better of it. There are no words that he can make right now, but that’s alright. Jamie gets it, if the way he squeezes tighter and seems to curl around him is any indication.

 

(It occurs to him, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this is something more than teammate and captain, more than friends, more even than good friends. It’s all so unreal, he doesn’t pay attention to it.)

 

“Listen to me, Ty. I know we’ve- I know it’s been a tough year, and I know we don’t know each other very well but I- they were wrong. Okay, I don’t know what kind of person can feel good about convincing another that they aren’t worth anything, but I do know that it’s a shitty thing, and it’s not true. The team cares about you, I- I care about you.” 

 

Tyler cries, inhales grossly through his nose, and nods. He’s right, probably, but it’s a hard thing to hear. It’s even harder to actually believe it, and while he wants to, it’s not that easy. Not for him.

 

Jamie seems content to wait for Tyler to calm down, which doesn’t actually take that long because he doesn’t know how he’s still conscious. Jamie shifts to be on his back, and Ty stays curled on his side. 

 

There’s still so little space between them when he speaks. “How do I...do that.”

 

“Do what? Care about someone?” Jamie asks, although not maliciously.

 

“No, how do I- I’ve never- like people don’t care. About me. And you say that team does.”

 

“Because they do.”

 

“Then how- how do I-”

 

“How do you let someone care about you?” He can hear the words rumble through Jamie’s chest as he says them. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well,” Jamie starts, a small smile on his face when Ty looks up at him. “In my experience, it helps to say thank you. Not because that person needs to be thanked, but because it always helps me to show them that I appreciate and acknowledge what they’re doing.”

 

Tyler furrows his brow. “I don’t follow.”

 

Jamie huffs fondly. “Like when you thank me for an assist. Do you really need to thank me? Do you think that I don’t know you appreciate it?”

 

“...I guess not?”

 

“Right. But you do it anyway.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because- like what you said before. I want to make sure.” 

 

Jamie shakes his head. “Sure, but you already know that I know that you appreciate the pass, especially since you got a goal, which is some that are universally accepted as desirable in our profession. So really, it isn’t about me, so much as it is about you.”

 

“That doesn’t make sense. Like, at all.”

 

“Segs, I have met your mother. I know for a fact she instilled this on you. If I helped you, and you didn’t thank me, you would feel guilty. So most of the time, thanking someone who helps you is a way of ridding you of guilt.”

 

“Caring isn’t the same thing as helping.”

 

“Oh really?” Jamie snorts. “If we didn’t care about you, you might’ve cooked your brain in that hotel room. If the team didn’t care about you they wouldn’t have won that game for you, or covered for you with the press and coaches, or guarded you as we left, or shown up at the hospital. Caring about someone means being willing - it means  _ wanting  _ \- to help that someone.”

 

Tyler leans his head against Jamie’s shoulder. It makes sense if he thinks about it. He had been taught that people shouldn’t care about him, only because they  _ didn’t _ . But he always had trouble accepting it when people  _ did _ . Which probably goes back to his dad, and he doesn’t want to think about that.

 

So instead he responds with, “I’m sorry.” because it’s all he’s got.

 

Jamie doesn’t even let him have that. “It’s not about saying I’m sorry. It’s saying ‘thank you’, Segs. ‘I’m sorry’ says that you’re doing something wrong by needing help, but it also implies that you’re doing something wrong by letting them help you. ‘Thank you’ says you appreciate them doing something that other people might not.” He nudges Tyler with an elbow. “That’s probably why Jordie got snippy with you.”

 

Tyler thinks back to the hospital room when he and the older Benn got into a pseudo argument. “I puked on his shoes, Jamie.”

 

“You apologized for being sick. That’s not something you can control.” He pauses. “Plus, Jordie doesn’t like it when people he cares about self-deprecate, however indirect it may be.”

 

Tyler chooses to ignore the way Jamie says that, like he’s got experience to back up the fact. “How is that-”

 

“You took the blame for something that was not your fault, and that no blame need be placed, implying not only that you think so low of yourself that blame is normal, but also that even when something is no one's fault, you expect it to be yours. Trust me. Jordie doesn’t like that.”

 

Tyler stares at the ceiling some more.

 

“This is way too deep of a conversation for us to be having with no alcohol in either of our systems.”

 

“Well I figured you’re still sick, so it’s making you loopy enough to talk about emotion.”

 

And like- he’s  _ right _ , damn it. 

 

“Rude.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

**…** .

 

Like all things in life, it starts small enough.

 

Although, it feels pretty big to Tyler. Getting so sick he needs to be hospitalized, sleeping in the same bed as his captain, having a Serious Talk About Emotions - all things he assumed he wouldn’t ever have to deal with.

 

He does pretty well anyway.

 

This thing though, this thing started way before his throat started aching. This thing started in July of 2013, when he got a text on his phone from an unknown number that said ‘ _ let’s prove them wrong _ ’.

 

This thing is big and grand and all-consuming, while also being small and quiet and nearly transparent. 

 

This thing is a tingling in his fingers, a slight rise in heart rate, and a bigger smile, and it’s always when Jamie’s around. This thing makes him want to play faster, work harder, be a better person. 

 

This thing is- it’s not love, not yet, but it will be.

 

He’s not  _ in love _ with his captain. But he’s also not  _ not in love _ with his captain.

 

Which, now that he considers that sentence, that holds a great deal of ramifications. More than he might like if he ever drops the double negative and admits that like- yeah. 

 

He doesn’t care. 

 

_ ‘Let’s prove ‘em wrong’ _ . He repeats the words in his head on the short trip up to the Benns place. A whole five floors.

 

He figures they’ve each got their own people to apply that too. Jamie - the undrafted brawler who made captain - has his critics who call him untalented and worthless, and Tyler - the unprofessional problem child who drinks too much and sleeps around - has his old team, who pointed the finger and told him he was useless. 

 

This, though? This thing that he has, seated steady and real inside his chest? He wants to keep this. He wants it to grow. He wants what Jamie offered, want’s what Dallas is offering. This isn’t a team that’s got a playoff spot in its pocket, this is a team that has to work and build and fall apart to come back together.

 

(They don’t expect him to be perfect. Tyler knows now how important that is.)

 

Footsteps answer him when his closed fist knocks on the painted wood. He hopes it’ll be Jamie who opens the door, and someone’s looking out for him, because a pair of soft brown eyes match with dark, floppy hair when the door swings open.

 

“Hi.” He bounces on his toes with giddiness. Jamie looks at him the same way one looks at a rabid raccoon in the garbage- wariness, alarm, and small amount of fear.

 

“Hi?” 

 

Tyler bounces more. “So like- thanks. Thank you.”

 

Now Jamie just looks confused, but is growing increasingly worried. “Um. You’re welcome? Are you alright Segs?”

 

He stops bouncing and tilts his head. “Yes?”

 

“Are you sure?” Jamie asks. “Because you just knocked. On my door. I didn’t even know you knew how to do that.”

 

Tyler punches him in the shoulder. “Asshole, I know how to be polite. I just never do it with  _ you _ .”

 

Jamie makes a face. “Rude, Segs.” 

 

Tyler peers around him and waves at Jordie who’s on the couch looking very smug. 

 

So like- the plane ride home was shitty, and the few days after that were also shitty, but somewhere in between sleeping like he was dead and eating his weight in toast and soup, he managed to make a deal with Jordie- one that included a lengthy conversation at a later date. 

 

That later date was actually a few days ago - it’s been two weeks since  _ that  _ game, the one that will forever go down as the sickest he’s ever been in his life and that will probably be used for years to come as an example to school the rookies on what not to do when feeling ill.

 

“So is there is a reason you-”

 

“Do you wanna get lunch?” Tyler snaps his eyes back to Jamie, who finally manages to seem flustered. Ha.

 

“Uh- like right now or-”

 

“Now, tomorrow, next week. Doesn’t have to be lunch, we could do dinner. Or smoothies, there’s that one place you love downtown-”

 

Jamie grabs at the back of his neck. “Ty are you…are you-”

 

“Asking you on a date?” Tyler beams. “Yes.” 

 

He watches with glee as Jamie’s face turns bright red. Behind him, Jordie is pressing both hands over his mouth in an attempt to keep his laughter unheard. “I- uh- did you- are you-”

 

“It’s not a prank.” He makes the promise seriously, because he wouldn’t ever joke about someone’s sexuality. Not after what he did. Tyler takes a deep breath and makes a big show of rolling his eyes. “I’ll even go to that Mexican place you love.”

 

Jamie’s staring at Tyler like he’s never seen him before, and he’s nodding before he starts speaking. “We- yeah. Yes. Um- yeah. Lemme- hey Jord, I’ll be back!” He calls over his shoulder, aggressively putting on a pair of slides. 

 

Tyler steps back to let him out, and Jamie is still blushing red when they step into the elevator.

 

Jamie is quiet for all of three seconds on the ride down, and then he must decide to end the weirdness, because-

 

“So does this mean you’re gonna finally admit you like tacos or-”

 

“Oh my  _ god,  _ Benn-”

 

\-------

 

_ Fin. _

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed and thank you so much reading! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :D


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